


And Maybe We Can Go Back, To What Could Have Been

by yunhaiiro



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Dissociation, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Stick around for a twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 08:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunhaiiro/pseuds/yunhaiiro
Summary: 1945. Steve never became Captain America and never went to fight the War. Bucky did ship out and then came back in one piece. Physically, at least. Now they have a chance to lead a happy life.Or do they?





	And Maybe We Can Go Back, To What Could Have Been

Bucky Barnes awoke from a nightmare with a start.

The moment he opened his eyes to the darkened room, he couldn't recall what the nightmare had been about. He could only feel the dread it had put in his stomach.

Disoriented, he looked around. The only light was filtered through the blinds of the single window in the room, warm and familiar. On the other side, there was another bed, a small lump buried in the covers.

Steve.

Bucky exhaled, sitting up in his own bed. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock on his bedside table.

An ungodly hour in the morning. And he was pretty sure he had to get up early the next day.

He sighed again, laying back, and tried to ignore the uneasiness that had settled into him.

Stealing glances at Steve's sleeping form, who moved at least five times in as many minutes, Bucky found it in himself to go back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky woke up several hours later to find Steve getting dressed, his shirt ill-fitting on his skinny frame.

Steve finished buttoning up and noticed Bucky was awake. He smiled at him.

In answer, Bucky let out a sigh-groan and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.

"You alright?" asked Steve, way too chipper.

"I didn't sleep that well."

Steve face fell for a fraction of a second, but immediately smiled again.

"Well, you can sleep in. Nowhere for you to go at this hour."

Bucky furrowed his brow in confusion.

"But wasn't I supposed to..." He trailed off, suddenly aware that he couldn't come up with anything he had to do. He had been so sure last night.

Steve was putting on his shoes by then.

"If you wanna make yourself feel useful," he piped up. "You could go get groceries. We're a bit short on..." He paused, considering. "Well, everything."

Bucky nodded absent-mindedly. He didn't notice Steve was looking at him with a calculating expression.

"I think... I'll sleep a bit more first."

Steve rose to his feet.

"Fair enough. If you do go out, though, money's on the tin."

Bucky nodded again.

Steve stared at him for a bit, then smiled softly before waving.

"Well then, I'm off."

He left the room, closing the door behind him. Bucky laid back on the bed.

Some time later, he heard the front door close too.

He was still staring at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

 

After a long, long while, Bucky accepted he wasn't actually going back to sleep.

He got up, stretching every limb, and ambled to the bathroom to wash up.

The bathroom mirror welcomed him with his unshaved, extreme-bags-under-his-eyes face. Yikes.

But he was still on autopilot, and since he was just going to the store, he figured he could just wash his face and leave the preening for another day.

He did smooth his hair back, though, because a guy needed standards.

 

* * *

 

Since Steve had said they were low on everything and the tin had been surprisingly overflowing with money, Bucky was indulging himself with the shopping. Just a little bit.

He already had two full bags in his arms when he passed in front of the fruit stand. He maneuvered one onto his knee to point the plums out to the vendor, then handed her the money. The lady smiled broadly at him and stacked the fruits in one of his bags, as many as she could. She was almost laughing.

"There you go, love."

Bucky smiled back.

"Mulțumesc."

The woman froze, eyes narrowing in confusion.

Bucky caught himself.

"I mean, thank you. Have a good day!"

He hurried away, waving as awkwardly as he could while carrying the two bags.

He came home, and left them on the counter.

He fell back into a kitchen chair.

Where the hell had that come from?

 

* * *

 

 

Steve came back in the afternoon, still weirdly chipper, and Bucky tried not to dwell on the plum incident.

"Oh, hey." Steve said, shrugging off his coat. "You bought a lot."

"We did have a lot of money."

"Yeah." Steve let himself fall on the sofa next to Bucky. "Incredible what a vet's pension can buy when we stay in every single night."

"D'you want me to take you out dancing, Rogers?"

"And sacrifice being able to buy..." Steve tried to see what was inside the bags from where he was sitting down. "... such beautiful plums? Nonsense."

Bucky's mood deflated a bit and even when he tried to hide it, Steve, of course, noticed.

"I'm kidding, y'know. I just... thought you wanted some peace and quiet. For now." He looked down at his fidgeting hands.

Bucky put one of his hands over them, practically covering them whole, and Steve stared at it for a beat, then looked up at him.

"The company's good, so I don't mind staying in." Bucky smiled, and Steve could see how tired he still looked. Which just made him surer that yes, this was for the best.

He still poked a bony elbow in Bucky's ribs and called him a sap.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky didn’t want Steve to worry. Oh, he knew Steve _would_ worry, no doubt, but he wanted to keep him from worrying too much.

Which is why after every nightmare that woke him up in the middle of every single night, he just laid very still and tried to focus on Steve's calm breathing, tried to get his own under control, tried to erase from his brain the images that didn’t make much sense but _terrified_ him.

He thought he managed. But every morning, Steve took one look at him and somehow knew. Couldn’t be long before he tried to talk to him about it.

Bucky was not looking forward to that.

He was tired all the time, now. He started taking naps on the afternoons, on the sofa. It was cramped, but there was light. He’d started to see shadows on every corner, to see _something_ from his nightmares lurking there. Sometimes he saw it in the mirror. Or crawling up his arm.

Bucky knew he should ask Steve for help.

But he didn’t want Steve to worry.

 

* * *

 

 

One night, Bucky heard a sharp whistle, felt cold metal under his fingers, freezing wind on his face, then woke up drenched in sweat. He kept flashing back to that nightmare the whole day.

 

He dreamt of blood-covered snow, of shouts and needles and saying his service number over and over and of a chilling void where his arm was supposed to be and then something _worse_.

 

In his next nightmare, he snapped. Awake, he found himself searching for the gun he knew he still had. Steve must had hidden it.

 

But not well enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky stared at his left arm and it was wrong wrong _wrong._

He lifted the gun with his right hand and carefully balanced the muzzle on the palm of the left one, on its dead center.

He took a controlled breath, then another.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The bullet lodged itself on the wooden floor, blood spilling everywhere, and he could see this through the hole in his palm, and for a moment Bucky only felt numb.

But a second later sharp pain shot through him and made him double over, and he almost threw up.

He tried to get his breath under control again, lifting his head and staring right ahead. His eyes had filled with tears without him noticing. Everything looked blurry.

He lifted his right hand again, still clutching the gun, and this time he aimed it at his temple. But his arm was shaking too much. He lifted his other hand to prop it up better, even if his bloody fingers were hanging uselessly and his whole limb was screaming at him.

Before he could pull the trigger this time, he heard hurried footsteps, and the door he had been staring at opened wide.

Steve stood there, wheezing, taking in the state of the room, then fixed his gaze on him and looked horrified.

"Bucky."

It managed to sound both like a whisper and a scream, and then he was kneeling in front of Bucky, not quite touching him.

He hadn't lowered the gun.

He blinked away tears, trying to focus on Steve's face.

"Bucky. Please. Don't do this."

Bucky shook his head, the gun bumping into his temple.

"You don't get it."

Steve looked desperate, at a complete loss of words. Bucky almost chuckled at the thought. What could he even say, anyway?

So he had to be the one to keep talking.

"This isn't right."

"What is?" Steve rasped.

"Nothing. Everything. This is not supposed to be our life. This is all a lie."

"Bucky..."

Bucky saw for a horrifying moment how his body moved all on his own, lowering the gun from his own head. Aiming it straight at Steve's.

Steve's eyes grew wide in surprise, but then settled into a neutral expression.

Steve didn't think he could do it. He wasn't afraid of him.

Bucky regained control of his arm, which started to shake, but his vision doubled.

He was here, aiming a gun at Steve.

_He was somewhere else, doing the same._

He would never hurt Steve.

_He had to kill him._

His friend.

_His mission._

He couldn't...

 

( _I'm not gonna fight you_ )

 

He was in 1945, in their dingy apartment, and he would. _Never_. Hurt. Steve.

Bucky threw the gun away and dropped his head, his right hand tangling in his hair and tugging desperately.

Steve, very carefully, not saying a word, wound bony arms around him, and stopped his hand by tangling their fingers together.

They stayed like that a while, Bucky's left hand dripping blood onto the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Some days later, Steve picked up a piece of paper from the floor.

"Is this yours?"

Bucky looked up from the sofa.

"I don't know, what is it?"

Steve frowns at it.

"I don't know if it's supposed to be a poem. It looks like a bunch of random words. But I'm pretty sure this is your handwriting."

"Well, what does it say?"

Steve sighed and cleared his throat, squinting at the scrawled letters.

"Longing, rusted... Um, furnace...?"

Something clicked in Bucky's head, something that was not supposed to.

Bucky jumped from the sofa and grabbed Steve's hand, making him drop the paper.

He was grabbing him with his left arm _and it was metal and it was whirring and_ …

"Bucky!"

… he let go.

"What the hell is wrong with you!? Jesus Christ."

Bucky's vision was blurry with tears once more.

He tried to take a step back.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you, I-"

"Hurt _me_?" Steve was cradling Bucky's actual left hand in his own. It was bleeding through the bandages. "You opened your wound again." Steve's voice was strained.

After stopping the bleeding and re-applying the bandages, Steve took the piece of paper, crumpled it, and threw it into the lit stove.

 

* * *

 

 

The stove wasn’t lit anymore. They were trying to save up, huddled together under blankets on the sofa, trying to keep themselves warm. Steve kept nodding off against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky had his left arm around his skinny frame. They barely left each others' side lately. Steve worried. Bucky, even if he didn’t want to admit it, also didn’t trust himself. He knew Steve had had to stop working because of him. That all of this was his fault.

He felt so, so cold. He shivered. Steve slightly moved his head up, but almost immediately dropped it back down and fell asleep again.

Bucky’s vision started to blur.

He tried to shake Steve awake, but he had no left arm anymore.

He tried to call out to him, but he couldn’t find his voice.

He opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up to hissing and vapor rising right next to his ear, explosions and gunshots in the distance, and the face of the King of Wakanda in front of his, Panther suit on. He nods at Bucky as the only greeting, puts on the mask, and extends a hand.

"We need to go."

 

* * *

 

"Where's Steve?" Bucky asks, not for the first time.

The driver looks at him over the car mirror, then goes back to watching the road in absolute silence.

Bucky crosses his arms and leans against the car door on his left side, flexing the fingers of his new metal arm without noticing. T'Challa also looks at him from across the back seat and Bucky wills himself to stop fidgeting. He doesn't want to look ungrateful. But it is taking him some time to adjust, going back into the action, and at the same time, he feels like he will never forget how to use this arm to fight. And kill.

Both of these things terrify him.

He really, really wants to see Steve.

 

* * *

 

"Dear God, how long was I under?"

Steve's smile falters at that.

"What? They didn't t-"

"No, but I'm guessing it has been 10 years, for you to manage to grow that beard."

Steve snorts and punches him in the arm.

"It's been two years, but I've shaved since then. Ass."

"I really didn't need to know you shaved your ass, Rogers."

Steve opens his mouth to answer but promptly shuts up after a very pointed throat-clearing by T'Challa, who also raises an eyebrow at them both.

"We really don't have time for this."

They both mutter 'sorry's.

Then they stand side by side, listening to T'Challa's briefing. And Bucky swears he _is_ listening, but he can't stop sneaking glances at Steve, who catches him more than once and gives him that exasperated look he knows so well, and then a small smile on the corner of his lips.

Bucky deems that good enough, and finally gives the King his full attention.

 

* * *

 

It's a quiet moment, and Bucky and Steve are alone. Both rare occurrences lately, even more at the same time.

Bucky is absent-mindedly rubbing his left hand with his right, feeling the cold metal slowly become warm to his touch. Steve also looks deep in thought.

Bucky wonders if he also feels the weight from all the years of fighting.

(Even if he knows his own weight is heavier, and himself... weaker.

Steve can handle it. But Bucky is slowly realizing that he might not).

He thinks back on everything they've done. On everything they did, back when it was the Howling Commandos. And before... before everything began. And of... What if.

"Steve?"

"Hm?"

Steve looks directly at Bucky, slight worry in his eyes. That has somehow become his natural expression. Bucky hates it.

He chooses his words very carefully before speaking.

"Do you ever wonder what our life would've been, if none of this had happened?"

Steve sighs.

"None of this?"

"None."

"How far back is this?"

"1943."

Steve narrows his eyes and looks pensive.

"WWII still happens, but I'm not actually useful? And you still leave?"

Bucky shrinks a bit at the accusation, but tries to defend himself.

"We still win the war, and I go back home. And you're there, just... just as always."

Steve stares at him and Bucky looks down.

Steve waits.

Bucky speaks up again.

"And... it probably isn't great, but it isn't horrible either, and we live a... normal life."

He hasn't looked up yet, so he can't see Steve's eyes are filled with sadness.

"Would you..." Bucky clears his throat. "Would we... have been happy?"

He risks a glance up and almost drowns in that sadness.

Steve blinks and avoids his eyes for a second, seems to think better of it, and looks straight at him again.

"Yes, Bucky. I like to think so".

 

* * *

 

The first time Bucky meets Tony Stark again doesn't really go that well.

He truly wants to apologize. But he is certain that Stark will not accept it. The hole he is drilling into his skull with his eyes is proof enough of that.

"Get that thing out of my face" he spits, still looking directly at him but deliberately talking like he isn't present. And like he isn't human.

Steve steps in front of Bucky, and he has a vivid recollection of Steve doing exactly the same so many years ago, when he was several inches shorter. Now, he is like a wall between Stark and Bucky.

"This isn't like last time, Tony. We're all on the same side."

Stark chuckles, darkly.

Bucky watches Steve's shoulders go up and down on a silent sigh.

"Tony. Please."

And Bucky also watches Stark's set jaw, and how he goes from staring at him to looking at Steve, then blinking twitchily. And how he seemingly gives up because of Steve's words alone.

On that second, Bucky can admit that he and Tony Stark have something in common.

 

* * *

 

Bucky will never know the same image he's seeing right now is one Tony Stark had also seen, in a nightmare of his own.

He will never know, because Tony Stark can never tell him. Tony Stark is dead.

Most of them are.

Dr. Strange struggles to get something out of his pocket. His sentient cape helps him, holding his trembling hand so he doesn't drop it. He offers it to Bucky.

"You need... you need to use this. I can't..."

Bucky looks at the glowing cube, not moving. He's had enough of those.

"Please. We can fix this."

Bucky looks down at where he is sitting, Steve's head on his lap. Bruised. Battered. Barely breathing, barely holding on.

Bucky's arm, his flesh hand, is on his chest.

"How," he says, more than asks, through gritted teeth.

"Take this." Dr. Strange holds up the cube again. "And wish for this to never have happened."

Bucky's eyes darken. He takes the cube with his left hand. Lightly presses down with his other hand on Steve's chest. It's getting harder and harder to feel his heartbeat.

His mind goes back to their last heart-to-heart.

They deserved to be happy, didn't they?

Bucky wishes to be happy.

 

* * *

 

Bucky Barnes wakes up in a darkened room, light filtered through the blinds of the single window, warm and familiar. On the other side, another bed, a small lump buried in the covers.

Steve.

Bucky throws his own sheets away and ambles over until he's standing in front of Steve's bed. The lump rearranges itself until there's one eye staring blearily at him.

"Bad dream?"

Bucky tries to look sheepish.

"Yeah, kind of. Can I...?"

Steve doesn't wait until he finishes and moves over, leaving a pretty big space on the bed. Bucky's in there under the covers in seconds.

Now Steve's looking at him a bit more awake.

"D'you wanna talk about it?

Bucky shakes his head.

"It was just some random stuff from the war. Don't worry about it."

Steve doesn't argue and closes his eyes, before opening them again.

"You know, I think I was dreaming something too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, like..." And he looks away trying to remember. "I dreamed I actually got admitted into the Army before you left with the 107th."

Bucky says nothing.

"But it was because they had some sort of secret experiment project? I don't know. It was kind of messed up."

"Have you been re-reading Frankenstein?"

"Shut up." Steve kicks him lightly in the shin, under the covers. "They made me... Taller. It was kind of nice."

Bucky's the one staring at Steve now.

"Would you have liked that?"

Steve chuckles.

"What, you mean if it had been even remotely possible?"

"Yeah."

"Well..." Steve lowers his voice. "I would've liked to have come with you. Taller or not. But-" and he continues with a lighter tone. "You managed not to get yourself blown up even if I wasn't there, so it's all good."

"Yeah," Bucky searches for his hand and tangles their fingers together. "'S all good."

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after watching Civil War way back when and finished it yesterday thanks to the cheering of the lovely [dfotw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dfotw/pseuds/dfotw). You have her to either thank or blame.
> 
> This could be the weirdest fusion I've ever comitted to fic. Inspiration for this was the anime [spoiler].
> 
> Also I am not a die-hard comics fan and just needed a reality-warping McGuffin, and a Cosmic Cube seemed the best option. I think that's exactly what comics writers actually do all the time, though. I'll just be extremely mad if Infinity War steals my idea.


End file.
